Chocolate Cake The Complete Series
by TheLocket
Summary: This is a collection of the five stories -- Chocolate Cake, A Delicate Situation, A Closet Affair, All Locked Up, and A Close Study -- that catalogue the misadventures of one of the Harry Potter Series' steamiest pairs -- Dramione.
1. Chocolate Cake The Beginning

Chocolate Cake

If there's one problem with being friends with two guys, it's what they don't get.

I quickly shut my textbook, hurriedly cramming my papers into my bag, ignoring the wrinkles and rips I was causing and the stares I was receiving from the two boys.

"Are you really giving up on your homework?" Harry asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow behind his famous glasses. I barely managed a sneer in response.

"Why could you want chocolate cake so bad?" Ron asked, his blue eyes locked on my hastened movements with confusion. Clueless. I rolled my eyes. Boys. I swept out the library to hear Ron's bewildered, "Why does she want cake?" Harry had the sense to not respond while I was in earshot; whether he guessed or not, I was unsure, but didn't want to wait around to hear. Couldn't.

I swear, sometimes I think I'm a hopeless addict and chocolate is my drug. My secret temptation. My ambrosia, my sin. As I walked down the hallways, I could smell the chocolate cake that every Thursday brought. I fairly began sprinting to the Common Room.

When Ginny saw me in my flustered, chocolate-deprived state, she snorted. I threw my bag onto the couch, not bothering to care if the papers fell out. I glared at her, and something in my appearance – whether it was my hair (which I had at one point during the day tied back in a bun and must have been, by that point, escaping the twist) or some other look in my eyes – made her stop laughing. Or rather, pretend that she did not find my actions amusing. Very unsuccessfully, might I add.

"Hermione," she choked out between suppressed laughs, "you really need to stop this. It's not healthy."

I resisted the urge to lob a pillow from the couch at her, but instead swept from the Common Room with as much grace as I could manage.

When I finally made it to the kitchens, I almost had enough decency to be embarrassed when the elves – poor, enslaved creatures – bowed to me and welcomed me by name. Almost. But they knew better than to stay around; they quickly, and discreetly, moved to different rooms of the kitchens. I barely noticed.

Instead of following them, I passed through the first room, which was lined with highly polished coppery and silvery pans, hung high at my eye level. After ducking under a few errant pan-handles and spoons, I was able to push through the swinging, metallic, kitchen-style doors. The door stuck, leaving me no privacy, but I couldn't care.

Because inside that room, on top of a shelf on top of a counter, sat the giant, frosted, chocolate cake. The scent almost drove me insane.

But there was a slight problem. The stupid elves, I realized, had levitated it upwards, far out of my reach. The shelf covered that section of the counter, so that even if I managed to climb atop it, I wouldn't have a ledge to stand on. Stupid, stupid elves.

Of course, Hermione, you must be saying. If the elves can levitate a cake, you can too. It's first year magic, Hermione. Just use _Wingardium Leviosa_. Alright, perhaps you are right. And I was wrong. The scent wasn't almost driving me crazy – it was.

In my defense, I spent eleven years doing things the hard way – using chairs to reach the cookie jar, using hairpins to pick the pantry locks. So, I was able to spot a step-stool in the corner of the room. Instantly, I had it propped up against the counter. Hurriedly, I climbed the three small steps. If I strained my neck and looked upwards, I could see the giant cake that was easily larger than a wagon wheel. The heavenly smell dizzied me.

A burst of wind that brushed against my thighs reminded me that I was wearing a skirt, and, had a pesky elf snuck back into the kitchen, he or she could easily stare up my skirt. And I was reminded that I had chosen that day, of all days, to wear that pink lacy underwear a friend had gotten me on Valentine's Day as a joke. But, embarrassment was forgotten. Whatever social humiliation I may face if an elf stared up at my lingerie was unimportant.

Despite my precarious position – physically and socially – I stood on my tip-toes, straining to reach the cake. With the few additional inches, I was able to grasp onto the top of the shelf, on which the cake was placed.

"Naughty, Granger," came a voice. It was much too low to be coming from an elf, and something in the velvety tone made a shiver run down my spine.

Flushing in sudden embarrassment, I turned my head, careful to remain on my tip-toes to keep my purchase on the shelf.

Draco Malfoy was standing directly below me, and his eyes were not on my face, or even the cake. A sneaky grin played across his features as his evilly-glinting grey eyes flicked upwards to meet brown ones. And I became all-too aware of the skimpy, provocative undergarment I had foolishly chosen to wear.

"I mean," he elaborated, the teasing look never leaving his face, "I would have never figured that you would be the type to spoil such a perfect cake with your dirty, Mudblood hands."

I stared at him, raising an eyebrow, and dug a finger across the velvety, smooth frosting. His eyes flicked to my finger as I slowly licked the frosting off, enjoying the rich chocolate flavor almost as much as I enjoyed his reaction.

The grin was gone; he was scowling.

"Great, Granger," he spat out, "now you've gone and ruined a perfectly wonderful cake."

I snorted at his ridiculous response. Ignoring him, I used my wand to summon a knife that was hanging on the wall. True, it wasn't one that was suited to cutting cake – it was too long, too sharp. But I liked the suddenly nervous expression that flashed across his face. I laughed again, surprising myself with the malicious sound. After I had cut the slice, put it on a plate, and carefully placed the knife, plate, and slice of cake on the open counter far to my left (finally employing _Wingardium Leviosa_), I sighed and began to step down, ready to finally enjoy my chocolate fix.

"Hey." A hand wrapped around my ankle, the warm fingers and cold metal of the ring uncomfortably touching my bare skin.

"What, Malfoy?" I snapped, my patience used up. When was I going to get to enjoy my chocolate cake? I could have hissed at him.

"Get me a piece," he replied. Was there a glint of humor in his gray eyes?

"Let go of me, Malfoy," I retorted. My order obviously didn't phase him, although his had affected my tone.

"Manners, Granger," he murmured silkily, but he released my ankle and stared pointedly at me. Grudgingly, I repeated the process, summoning another plate and levitating the knife once again to get him his own piece. All the while, I tried to ignore the prickling feeling of his eyes upon me. When I finally (and grumpily) climbed down the steps, I doubted the mischievous, delighted look in his eyes was due simply to the cake I was holding.

"Here," I said gruffly, shoving the plate in his face. Which was difficult, because he was a head taller than me. I grabbed my own plate, and a fork from the drawer (it was slightly depressing that I knew so well where everything was in the room). I had just sat down at the table, my fork poised atop the cake, when I heard the scrape of another chair being pulled up.

Draco turned it around and straddled the back of the chair, placing his cake across from mine on the small, round, wooden table.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" I demanded harshly, springing up from my chair as though electrocuted.

He already had a fork full of the delicious chocolate in his mouth, so as he was unable to answer verbally, he held his hands up in a gesture of innocence, widening his gray eyes. I sighed, and tried very hard to control my temper. Once seated, I glowered at him for a moment. He seemed not to notice, carefully swirling his fork in the frosting and licking the utensil clean.

Finally, finally, finally, I turned my attention to my cake. The first bite was bliss. The second was better.

I was slowly licking the frosting off the fifth bite when I realized he was staring at me, his fork poised half-way to his mouth, which was open. His eyes watched me quizzically.

"What?" I demanded, slightly uncomfortable. "Have you never seen anyone eat cake before?" He stared for a moment, and then put the fork in his mouth. We watched each other for a moment.

"Like I said before, Granger," he replied, breaking the silence as he stood. Only then I realized that his plate was empty, scraped clean of almost all the frosting. "Naughty."


	2. A Delication Situation

A Delicate Situation

I couldn't put it off any more, couldn't deny it any longer. With the flimsy canvas bag clutched in my hand and held to my side in a desperate attempt to hide it from public view, I strode purposefully down the third floor corridor. As I passed groups of students, I stared straight ahead. My goal was to not see the curious stares that I assumed followed me; however, by not looking, my imagination allowed me to believe that I received as much attention as a notorious criminal being led to his execution.

I felt myself flush with the embarrassment of being watched as though I had a spotlight trained upon my clumsy, hurried movements. My eyes, however, remained locked on my goal. It was not the portrait of fruit that led to the kitchens, but rather the one that led to the Prefects Bathroom.

I hadn't been able to enjoy chocolate cake for some weeks, and perhaps that was a cause of my irritability. Whatever the reason, I had tried to avoid being stared at, especially by a certain Slytherin seeker. Thus, why I avoided the kitchens. No excuses.

My policy of avoidance, however, did not prevent me from wondering if he was there every time I passed the portrait. Or imagine his mischievous expression after staring blatantly at my lingerie.

Damn that underwear. It had allowed Draco Malfoy a glance that he sure as hell had not earned. And now it was responsible for the humiliation I faced. For the canvas bag concealed that pink lacy garment, and my destination, the Prefects Bathroom, housed the only private sink in which I could wash it.

I glanced left and right down the corridor, checking for professors, students, anyone. I had decided not to ask Harry to borrow his Invisibility Cloak; what if he had asked why? I couldn't lie to him, and once I admitted that I didn't trust the House Elves with my delicate laundry, he would tease me forever. And I did not want those two boys to get any ideas about what lingerie I did or did not have. I was, however, beginning to regret that decision. Because with an Invisibility Cloak, I would not have had the need to continuously check over my shoulder as though I was guilty of some horrible offense.

The portrait opened (had it always opened so slowly, and with such loud creaking?) and I deftly slid in and closed it behind me before it had even opened all the way. A few quick glances showed an empty bathtub, towels neatly lined up, and a shower curtain neatly drawn. I listened, but the shower apparently was off. I sighed with relief. Alone.

I pride myself at being a smart girl, so I knew that my solitude was subject to change. So I didn't waste a moment; I went quickly to the tub, closed the drain, turned on a faucet, and used a quick spell to cause the stream of soap to shoot into one of the small, white marble sinks to the left side of the bathtub. And then I turned the water on. Mistake number one.

The soap frothed more than I had expected, covering the faucet. I lost precious moments feeling around in the white mess to find the faucet to turn the sink off; by then, I was drenched all down my front with vanilla-scented bubbles, which were uncomfortably soaking through my thin shirt.

Grunting to myself in anger, I unbuttoned my sleeves and rolled them up. This task took several precious moments, as my hands were slick with the vanilla soap.

Archimedes was a mathematician who discovered that an object placed in water displaces a volume related to its mass. Being flustered as I was, I completely forgot about displacement at all. Therefore, upon placing my arms into the sink, I showered myself in yet another wave of bubbly, vanilla water.

I sighed angrily, and without thinking wiped back a few misbehaving curls, thereby coating my hair with suds. I resisted the urge to curse loudly (barely) and once again, and more slowly, placed my hands and lingerie under water. I scrubbed fiercely, seeking to vent my anger.

Then I removed my underwear from the sink and placed in the next one to my left. With slight difficulty, I reached deep into the sink to allow the water to drain. Apparently I had not thought this out at all; I managed to coat my nose to waist in soap bubbles. I was reduced to sputtering out bitter-tasting soap bubbles, but was at least successful in emptying the sink.

Therefore, it came as no surprise when I lost my purchase on the next faucet and sent a giant stream of water gushing forth into the sink. Such was the strength that it sprayed in all directions, managing to, once again, soak me.

By this point, I was thoroughly drenched. However, I continued. I careful rinsed out the pink lace and the set them to dry on the counter. Tiredly, I turned around, and set to fixing my dripping hair into the semblance of a bun.

And just when I thought my washing trip could not get any worse, I turned around to realize I was not alone.

I sighed angrily. First, Draco Malfoy ran into me dressed like a Victoria's Secret model-wanna-be, shoving chocolate cake into my mouth. Now, he saw me garbed like some bimbo in a wet T-shirt contest, with soap bubbles running down my thighs. Great.

He coughed embarrassedly.

"I see I'm" – he cleared his throat– "interrupting." I stared at him, surprised that he had the cheek to grin at me.

"Yes," I replied shortly. He shrugged.

"Care to join me?" he offered mischievously. Only then did I realize he wore a bathrobe with a clean towel slung over his left shoulder. I glared at him. He grinned back.

Back to me, he began to turn on the taps, allowing the large bath to begin to fill. Afer a long moment, the bath was filled. He turned off the taps, and suddenly there was silence. And I heard the heavy, warm bathrobe drop to the floor.


	3. A Closet Affair

A Closet Affair

Tuesday, Potions Class with Professor Snape. Otherwise known as hell on earth. With Malfoy alternating between ludicrously attractive murderous glares (for not having plunged nude into the Prefects bathtub with him) and similarly-gorgeous flirtatious glances, and Harry and Ron checking over their shoulders to see what warranted such unwanted attention from Malfoy, I was enduring my own personalized torture.

Unfortunately, Malfoy seemed to notice how... disinclined... I was to alerting Harry and Ron to just how close I had been to having sex with him. I had sworn to myself that once I heard that robe fall to the tiled floor I would not glance at him, but on my way out, I couldn't help but sneak a glance at him. And to make matters worse, I think he caught me ogling his perfectly-muscled body. Great. As I stared at my caldron, muttering darkly to myself, I noticed that both Harry and Ron were staring at me questioningly, wondering why I kept running my hands nervously through my bushy hair or blushing to a color that can only be described as tomato-red.

"Hermione," began Ron, "is Malfoy giving you trouble?" He turned to stare daggers at the mentioned blonde.

"Oh, no, Ron," I replied. My voice sounded strangled and high-pitched from the stress. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Malfoy grin.

"Because he's bothering _me_," growled Ron, upset by something Draco did – probably related to his eyes straying over me, judging by his possessive tone.

I quickly jumped up, a response to crush the sudden urge I had to turn around and see just what Draco – Malfoy, I mean – was doing to upset Ron so much.

I made it to the supply cabinet when I heard a chuckle behind me. Without turning completely, I knew it was Malfoy and his two goons, due to the deep guffaws that followed.

"Hey, Granger," he called lazily, "I need some lace...wing flies. Can you pass me some?"

My face burned even redder at the reminder, and I resisted the urge to throw a scoopful of the flies in his perfect face.

"Sure, Malfoy," I growled, showing the jar at him. He smirked.

"Miss Granger," came the smooth voice of Professor Snape, ready to give out punishment. "I believe your potion is finished."

"Yes, Professor," I replied. It had been finished for several minutes.

"Then why, Miss Granger, are you depleting my store of scarab beetles?" I had been pounding extra beetles to vent my frustration – and other feelings – and was scooping more into a dish. Again, I blushed crimson and murmured something intelligible.

"I suggest you get some more from the Potions Closet," he replied, evilly relishing my expression.

"But Professor," I began in protest. He held up a hand, and my heart sunk as I realized I could not argue. The Potions Closet was several hallways away – it was a small broom cupboard filled with bottles and jars and strange glasses filled with picked animals and such. Not only was it dimly lit and cramped, but also unorganized, making it impossible to find anything. With the class bell nearly over, I'd be in the stupid once-broom-closet through lunch.

I made it to the Potions Closet without hexing any of the first years I passed, a small milestone compared to the daunting task before me. When I entered the small, rectangular room, I stood for a moment, staring at the shelves that reached high above my head. I muffled a laugh as I saw the brooms, buckets, and other items used by Filch – the so-called "Potions" Closet still doubled as a broom closet. And then I sobered as I saw the glittering of rows and rows of glittering glass bottles, flasks, tubes, jars, bowls, and every other kind of container invented since the Greeks made pottery (and some from before). And so I began sorting through the stacks. It was an impossible task. Only someone with a gross knowledge of the items – Snape – would be able to find anything. I tried climbing up the ladder that was on the wall, library-style, but found nothing that even resembled scarabs. I could recognize the Potions, and calmed myself by naming then – Forgetfulness Potion, Veritaserum, Wolfsbane (no doubt left over from Lupin), Polyjuice, Love Potion, and one small vial of Felix Felicis.

I was trailing my hands along the bottles to the left of these familiar potions as I sought to find the beetles, when a sudden commotion made me turn – and fall, ungracefully, from my ladder. I landed with a muffled "oof" and turned to see an all too familiar tall, broad-shouldered, blonde-haired figure quickly turn into the open closet and pull the wooden door shut behind him. Hiding from someone (I would later swear that I heard Filch coming down the hallways, screeching insults and threats).

The result was extreme – we were both plunged into extreme darkness. As I shuffled to find my wand, I was sure he did the same – a sharp elbow hit me between my ribs.

"Ow," I complained.

"Granger?" was the incredulous response.

"Yes," I replied angrily.

"Sorry," he replied, repentant. With a casual flick of his wand (no incantation, though – I have to admit, I was impressed) he lit his wand.

"Whatever," I replied gruffly to hide my shock at his sincere apology, rubbing my ribs pointedly and scowling.

"Honestly," he laughed, his expression brightening from remorseful to amused. "I didn't hit you _that _hard."

"I'm delicate," I replied, scowling. He stifled another chuckle. I tried to shove past him to the door, uncomfortable of our close proximity that the narrow room required. I pushed on the wooden frame, feeling for a handle. And then I groaned.

"What now, Granger?" he asked. In the dim light of his wand I could see him raise an eyebrow.

"This door opens from the outside, idiot," I growled. "You've locked us in."

"Have I?" he asked, sounding unperturbed. And by the way he glanced over me I could tell that he was unconcerned with our situation. And probably quite used to being locked in broom closets with girls. I sighed angrily and flopped to the ground, hugging my knees in the small space. He stared at me with great interest for a moment, and then sat down across from me.

"So what are we going to do?" he asked.

"Wait," I replied, seething.

"Ah," he replied, staring innocently off at the glittering glass bottles, all reflecting the wandlight eerily. I was suddenly claustrophobic, and tried to hide my sudden fear – the air felt stuffy, the walls pushing against my back, forcing me towards him.

"Do you have a better idea?" I snapped, glad to break the silence and distract myself, but unsure of why I always felt so defensive around him. He glanced at me, not bothering to respond.

"Anyway," I continued, strangely needing to explain myself, "Snape sent me in here for the scarab beetles; he'll probably come looking for me in a while."

"You still haven't found them?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"No," I huffed. "Why, do you think you can?"

"Is that a challenge?" he replied.

"Maybe."

"What do I get if I find them?" he asked. I was suddenly very interested in the fraying hem of my skirt.

"Says the boy who has everything."

"Everything?" he repeated.

"Well, what do you want?" I replied, glancing up at him, strangely immersed in the sudden enigma he presented.

"Promise me to give me whatever I ask," he replied, dodging the question, "and I will find you the scarab beetles."

"Fine," I replied quickly, and instantly regretted it. Because, for all that I was unhealthily curious about what he could want, I knew that I should not promise Draco Malfoy anything.

"Agreed," he said. And, raising his wand, he murmured, "_Accio Scarab Beetles_."

There was slight shifting on a shelf I hadn't thought to look on, and the small jar zoomed neatly into his outstretched hand.

"There." He offered me the jar triumphantly.

"That was clever," I allowed, surprising myself with the compliment.

"I _am_ in Slytherin," he replied with fake indignation.

"Yes, of course," I replied, my condescension equally false. He grinned at our banter, and then his silver eyes became suddenly appraising. I suddenly forgot what I was saying, my mouth hanging open for a moment as I returned the intense gaze.

"Miss Granger!" came a voice. There was a pounding on the door.

"Yes, Professor?" I managed somehow to reply, not moving my gaze from Draco's face. The door swung open, and we both scrambled to our feet – I somehow pitched forward from the sudden movement, but Draco's strong hands caught and steadied me. I turned to face Snape, holding the beetles up in a desperate attempt to fake innocence. He glanced at Draco and rolled his eyes.

"Don't forget to leave them in the cabinet, Miss Granger," he replied, and strode off down the corridor.

Suddenly I was aware that the door was open, and walked quickly towards it – my rational mind making a bid for freedom before I could embarrass myself further. Draco followed, and we both stood in the narrow doorway at the same moment. I froze, glancing up at him, allowing him to pass through first. But he didn't; instead, his silvery eyes angled downwards towards mine.

"Granger," he murmured, "I decided what I want." And before I could object, he leaned down to press his lips gently against mine.


	4. All Locked Up

All Locked Up

I kissed Draco Malfoy.

Four little words, when weighed against the thousands I had said to my two best friends, should be insignificant. But they weren't. For an entire morning I tortured myself with the possibilities: A) I don't tell Harry and Ron about my tryst with Draco, or B) I refuse to keep secrets and treat this all as some sort of joke. While option A was preferable in many ways (it excused me from the unpleasant task of explaining to my two male best friends why I was uncannily attracted to a guy who, on multiple occasions, had rather vocally assured the entire school population of just how willing he was to see me die a painful death) there was something fundamentally wrong about not telling them. And wouldn't they wonder why Draco suddenly watched me not like some Mudblood scum but with blatant interest? Would they be curious if I suddenly disappeared during my free time and refused to mention where I had gone and whom I had been with? There was one obvious solution – never see Draco Malfoy again. Go back to thinking about him as a jackass who happened to live on planet earth, and who occasionally occupied the same classroom as me. But, rational as that solution seemed, something in me refused to acknowledge it as practical or possible.

So I therefore eliminated option A, leaving myself the unappetizing, if more morally-correct decision to be truthful with the only true friends I had.

I made it through breakfast without speaking a single word. Harry was wrapped up in his own silence (something to do with Voldemort trying to kill him) and Ron was stuffing his face while frantically trying to finish a Potions essay he had, as always, left until the last minute. They didn't notice that I hadn't spoken until breakfast ended.

"Uhm, hey," I began hesitantly, "I was just wondering..."

Both of them looked up – Ron's blue eyes were appraising, and Harry's green looked worried. I panicked and blurted out, "What are you guys doing after classes today?"

While ashamed of my cowardice, I allowed myself the procrastination of a few hours.

"We were thinking of practicing Quiddich," Harry replied after a moment of staring at me, probably trying to dissect my flustered state and nervously tapping fingers.

"Harry was gonna show me a few new moves," Ron continued, visibly brightening at what he mistook for my sudden interest in Quiddich. I made an uninterested sound in my throat and return my glance to my wildly twitching pointer finger that was beating out a steady rhythm on the wooden table.

"Why?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, nothing..." I replied, forcing a false brightness into my voice. "Just wondering... See you guys later!" I quickly fled the scene, contemplating hitting my head against the stone walls in self-directed anger.

"What's up, Hermione?" came Ginny's politely interested voice.

"Boys are so stupid," I groaned, leaning against the wall. Ginny laughed.

"They usually are," she replied. "Anyone in particular, this time?" After a pause, she asked, "Not my brother, right?"

"Ron?" I was shocked, and then chagrined that I _was_ shocked. I could think of no one more unlike Draco. "No, not Ron."

"Well," Ginny continued sensibly, "as long as it's not my good-for-nothing, immature brother, then I don't see a problem."

"You don't?" I asked.

"Just tell him that you like him. Boys are too stupid to actually realize that girls are into them."

"Oh, he knows."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at my weary tone.

"Are you sure?" she probed. After a moment's silence, she added, "Just tell him."

And with that she smiled and continued down the hallway to her first class.

After I completed my final class, I paced in the hallways for a good half-hour, trying to psych myself out, trying to convince myself that Ron and Harry would understand, or at least still speak to me... occasionally... every month... or year...

Finally, I couldn't stand it anymore. I marched to the Quiddich Pitch and without hesitation threw open the door to the Boys' Locker Room. Since there were no practices going, I knew that the figure I could see after wandering a while had to be one of the boys. And since they were never far apart I stopped a few feet away and blurted out: "Harry, Ron, you guys, I need to talk to you."

Through the steamy air I could see the figure, that had been seated on the bench, stand up slowly. I took a tentative step forward.

"Wow, Granger," came Draco's voice. His face looked shocked, and, to my surprise, angry. "_That _was quick."

"That – what?" I asked, staring at him in surprise.

"I always figured you and the Weasel," he began, sneering as he said the epithet, "but both boys? That's just... wrong."

I was staring at him in utter outrage when I realized that he was only wearing a towel wrapped loosely around his hips.

"What?" he demanded, and I snapped my eyes back to his face.

"I-I'm not... y'know, I never..." I tried to say, flustered to a point of complete lack of coherence. He realized that, once again, I was staring at his body, and at my completely lucid remark he smirked in amusement, his anger gone.

"You know, Granger, you had me really jealous there, for a moment."

"Uh-hu," I replied, blinking dazedly. He chuckled.

"Are you looking for those two idiots?" he asked, smiling politely, completely unperturbed by his own lack of clothing.

"Uh, yeah," I replied unconvincingly.

"So you didn't come in here just to see me naked."

"Yes." I replied too quickly.

"'Yes'?" he repeated.

"Yes I didn't come here to see you naked, Draco Malfoy," I elaborated, scowling ostensibly at his impertinence, but really to disguise the thrill I felt at the suggestion. He smirked again.

"Alright then," he replied. "Turn around."

"Huh?" My responses seemed to be getting wittier by the moment.

"Turn around," he repeated, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. He gestured towards a pile of clean clothing.

"Oh, right," I muttered, flushing bright red, but able to do as he requested. After a few tantalizing moments, and the sounds of fabric shifting, he called, "Okay, you can turn around."

I turned to face him as he stood, latching his belt. As I watched he pulled a white sleeveless undershirt on, which helped my thought process significantly.

"So," he began, business-like, as he grabbed his sweaty Quiddich gear and skillfully lobbed it into a dirty-laundry hamper on the corner of the lockers. "I think we need to discuss this further."

"Discuss what?" I asked, aware that I was suddenly nervous, aware of the rapid acceleration of my heartbeat.

"Well, Miss Granger," he replied smoothly, smiling mischievously, "we seem to keep bumping into each other."

"Yes, I suppose so," I allowed, resisting the urge to add that I wasn't upset that we seemed to find each other.

"Don't you think we should do something about that?" he pressed.

"Like what?" I asked cautiously.

"Hmm, I don't know," he murmured, his velvety voice more attractive than should be allowed. "Perhaps we should bump into each other... on purpose?"

I was staring at him, my mouth open like a stupid cow, when there was a loud banging noise of the locker room door being throw open. I froze as I heard footsteps near, and then was shocked and Draco wrapped his strong arms around my waist and lifted me, shoving me into an open locker. He quickly shut the door, and although I resisted, pushing against the closed door with all my strength, I felt him lean, nonchalantly, against the metal door, trapping me easily.

"Behave," he whispered between the hinges. When I hissed at him in anger, he shushed me, and I swear I could hear the smirk in his tone.

"Malfoy?" I heard through the door. There was no mistaking Ron's voice.

"What, Weasel?" returned Draco, his voice surprising vicious. I realized I had grown accustomed to his teasing, gentle tone and forgotten how cruel he could sound.

"C'mon," came Harry's weary voice through the door, as though restraining an angry Ron. "Let's just keep practicing." Draco snorted.

"Good luck with that," he called sarcastically. I could hear the footfalls recede, and, finally, the closing of the locker room door.

Draco made no move to free me from my locker-prison. After a moment, I began to hammer on the closed locker door.

"Draco, you ass, let me out of here!" I complained. Suddenly the door wretched open and I toppled, yet again, into his outstretched hands. He grinned at me, and began to button the clean white shirt he had donned.

"That was fun," he said jovially, his gray eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Yeah, I'm sure it was," I growled sarcastically, glaring at him.

"Hermione," he laughed. "Be nice." I scowled again, trying to ignore the fact that he had, for once, called me by my first name. There was silence for a moment as he tied the laces on his black shoes. Then I realized he was completely dressed.

"Draco," I began nervously, distracted by the way his silvery eyes locked on mine. "I like you,"I finally blurted out.

He grinned.

"I know."

"And...?" I asked. In three quick, long strides he was standing right in front of me, and bent to kiss me, quickly but sweetly, on the lips.

"Why don't you bump into me this Friday?" he suggested, absent-mindedly brushing a curl behind my ear. I nodded mutely.

"Excellent," he murmured, and after a moment of staring intently at me, he turned and swept from the room, leaving me standing alone in the Boys' Locker Room with yet another secret and a grin that I couldn't prevent.


	5. A Close Study

A/N: This is the fifth and finally story. Enjoy!

Most sane, rational people look forward to Friday. To the masses of students, faculty, and others who work a five-day week, Friday represents a break in the monotony, the promise of 48 hours of freedom from the dull repetition of classes, assignments...

I tried to pretend that I, like all the other students around me, was simply excited for the coming weekend. That the reason I counted the hours, watched the second hand tarry around the face of every clock, obsessively completed every assignment so nothing could sap the precious hours of my weekend – that all this was a simple, innocent, school-girl-longing for Saturday.

This I attempted unsuccessfully. For every time a bell rang, every paper completed, ever check on my To-Do List brought me closer to my rendevous with Draco Malfoy. Each time this event loomed closer, I could feel myself flush, the rush of adrenalin due to an emotion between fear or excitement.

So, naturally I was jumpy almost constantly. Thus, when Harry cornered me and asked innocently, (too innocently, I thought) "So, Hermione, are you excited for Friday?" I naturally jumped about five feet out my chair.

"Friday?" I attempted sound nonchalant, which came out more strangled than I had expected.

"Yeah," Ron replied. "Friday. It's gonna be great!"

Where they mocking me?

"What are you guys talking about?" My voice was unnaturally shrill, causing many Gryffindors to turn from their breakfast of toast and eggs to stare. The boys similarly were startled by my screeched inquiry.

"Hogsmeade. This Friday," Ron replied, speaking slowly. I sighed internally. Of course. Hogsmeade Honeydukes Candy. And, for Ron, every trip offered the tantalizing possibility of seeing Madam Rosmerta.

"I can't go," I lied slowly. Of course Draco would be taking me there. My heart thumped uncomfortably – was it out of fear that he wouldn't, or fear that he _would_?

"Why?" asked Ron.

"Homework," I replied, and stood. I knew the boys wouldn't follow me to check that I was actually going to the library – they believed me – but I went there anyway. It was the perfect, quiet place to think.

I seated myself comfortably in the far corner, where I could sit at the wooden tables and observe all those around me, a studious sentry. A few glances up from the Potions book I was reading ascertained that third year Edwin Mahoney (Hufflepuff) and second year Rachel Goldwin (Ravenclaw) were sneaking off to a study room for a different kind of education; Madam Pince was blissfully unaware that sixth year Theodore Blakely from Slytherin was scratching dirty words into a desk in his corner of the library; Draco Malfoy strode into the library and stopped at the desk to return a book.

My eyes automatically flicked back up. Whoah. Draco Malfoy. In the library. My head spun, and without consciously willing them, my eyes locked on him.

And, for the first time, I thought of him as mine. A completely ludicrous statement – in all sense of the word, I was his bitch, the one who was incoherent at the sight of his body and fell victim to the trickery of his silvery eyes – but a fun delusion to entertain nonetheless.

So, since I was pretending he was mine, it was alright that I watched him. Although I tried to surreptitiously stare at him, flicking my eyes from text to him, I found that I spent more time admiring him that reading about the correct proportions in a antidote.

For a while I marveled at how he _walked_. Confidence was apparent in every step; each foot was placed surely on the stone floors, his strong hands swinging nonchalantly... I dissected every movement, my eyes sliding from his broad shoulders down his back, recalling the perfect muscles that I knew the white cloth must conceal...

I discovered, to my chagrin, that he was glancing back at me. After a few looks to his sides, and after assuring himself as I had myself that no one in the library was watching either of us, he strode over. I tried to feign innocence, looking back at the open book, but my eyes couldn't focus on the page.

There was a loud screech of the wooden chair being pulled across the gray stone floor as he sat down across from me and scooted inwards toward me. I felt his knee brush mine under the table and I quickly shied away. My face burned with a flush that gave me away; a slight shiver made me quickly avert my eyes from his face.

Damn. The phrase "way over my head" is a gross understatement.

A quick glance showed me he was amused: amused by my innocence, the way I avoided touching him by accident, the way I averted my eyes and hunched my shoulders nervously. He reached out and wrapped his hands around mine to remove the book from in front of my face, where I had held it like a shield. My hands may have well been made of clay; the book fell to the table from my limp fingers. I stared at him for a moment. Really stared. He was smirking, yes, but his gray eyes were strangely alluring, inviting me.

His hands still held mine, and pushed them to the table, allowing both of us to lean in, unconsciously, over our intertwined hands.

Knowing he was going to kiss me didn't help; rather, it made me more nervous, made me unable to move. It wasn't fear; I was no longer _afraid _of him. More I was terrified: terrified of the power he had over me.

Our lips had just barely touched when I heard a too-loud-for-the-library crash to my right. I turned my head, unwilling to move away from the Slytherin who sat in front of me, his body similarly drawn towards mine.

A red-faced Ron and a livid Harry were staring at the two of us, a stack of books, (probably gathered painstakingly to help me with my fabricated homework assignment) on the stone floor.

"Hermione?" Harry managed to choke out, bewildered. Ron's ears were pink, a sign of danger, and in his case, extreme embarrassment and anger.

"What do you want, Potter?" growled Draco. He was probably embarrassed as well, a emotion he masked with his abrasiveness. He was so close to me that I felt his warm, angry breath stir the hair behind my ear. I turned my head a fraction back towards him, only to move quickly back at Ron's expression.

"What did you _do_ to her?" Ron sounded horrified, his mind spinning crazy fantasies of _Imperio_ or Love Potions.

"Ron." My voice was surprisingly calm and didn't betray my inner-panic. "Please."

He stared for a moment, but Harry nodded.

"Just let it go," he murmured in Ron's pink ear.

The two of them slowly turned, and then quickly strode out of the library.

"Oh no," I murmured, biting my lip in agitation.

"Don't worry." How could he sound so soothing? "They'll forgive you. No one could possibly be mad at you."

"That's what you think," I whispered, suddenly aware that tears were collecting in my eyes. I didn't want him to notice (if he saw, would I lose him as well?), so I turned my face away from his. He was having none of that; his hand found my jaw and turned me back to face him.

"Don't worry," he murmured, smirking, a playful twinkle in his gray eyes. "I'm always right." I had to smile at that.

And this time when he kissed me, I decided what I, too, wanted. And he was sitting right across from me.


End file.
